While Fern and Frieren enjoyed a relatively peaceful, academic routine in their inn room, Stark was discovering a new definition of hell.
CLANG!
A deafening ring of metal on metal echoed through the clearing. A split second later, a red blur shot through the air, crashing heavily into the dirt and skidding for several meters before coming to a halt.
"Gah! Cough... hah...!"
Stark gasped for air, the wind completely knocked out of his lungs. A searing pain radiated from his back where he had struck the ground.
Yet, despite the agony, his hands were locked in a death grip around the handle of his battle-axe. His master, Eisen, had drilled that into him: A warrior never drops his weapon.
Lying in the dirt, Stark finally understood why Frieren had asked him if he was "sturdy" before they started.
So this is what she meant, he groaned internally.
A few meters away, the clone of Stell lowered its training weapon and observed the red-haired youth. It ran a quick diagnostic on his physical state.
Analysis: Bone density and muscle resilience are exceptionally high. Subject 'Stark' is remarkably durable.
However, comparing the current data stream to the archived files of the Main Unit's apprentice, Takson, the clone noted a distinct gap. Stark was tough, but he lacked the raw, forged-in-fire edge that Takson possessed.
The clone calculated the optimal method to bridge that gap.
According to the Main Unit's records, the most efficient way to stimulate a human's potential was a "Death Match." Pushing a subject to the absolute brink of mortality forced their survival instincts to override their physical limits. That was why the Main Unit had thrown a young Takson into a labyrinth full of monsters.
But this clone faced a hardware limitation.
It did not possess the Virtual Combat Arena. That armament was bound exclusively to the Main Unit. Furthermore, while the clone could cast standard healing magic, it did not have access to the Fourth Bullet of Zafkiel, the power to rewind time and perfectly resurrect a fallen target.
If the clone pushed Stark into a true Death Match and he died, standard healing magic might not be enough to bring him back flawlessly. Permanent brain damage or physical crippling were unacceptable risks.
Conclusion: Lethal training protocols are restricted. Engaging alternative protocol: Non-Lethal Extreme Trauma.
Since it couldn't kill him, the clone would simply have to beat him to the very edge of consciousness, over and over again, holding back just enough to keep his heart beating.
As a result, Stark was enduring a training regimen far more brutal than anything his former master had ever devised.
"Hiss... I feel like my bones are turning to powder," Stark whimpered, pressing his forehead against the cool dirt.
He had figured out the rhythm of these sessions over the past few days. As long as the emotionless girl didn't explicitly tell him to stand up, he could lie on the ground and steal a few precious seconds of rest.
He closed his eyes, praying for just ten more seconds.
Then, a pair of small, black boots entered his field of vision.
"Query: Do you require more time?"
"Yes! Please, just a minute!" Stark pleaded.
"Negative," the clone stated, its voice devoid of sympathy. "Your stamina reserves have regenerated past the critical threshold. Further rest is inefficient. Stand up."
"Uwaaah!"
Stark let out a miserable wail, his face twisting into a mask of pure suffering. But despite his crying, his body moved. He pushed himself up off the dirt, his muscles trembling, and raised his axe.
His mind was exactly like any normal, scared teenager's. He wanted to run. He wanted to hide. But his warrior's spirit, the core of who he was, refused to yield. He complained, he whined, but he never threw down his weapon.
The training continued like this until the sun began to set.
By the time the clone finally called an end to the session, Stark had lost all concept of time. He was completely drained. The only thing that had kept him going was the "food" the clone provided during breaks, a strange, nutrient-dense paste that tasted like wet cardboard but instantly refilled his energy.
As twilight settled over the forest, Stark began the long, agonizing walk back to the city gates, using his battle-axe as a makeshift crutch.
The clone watched him limp away until he disappeared from sight.
It did not follow him. It remained in the clearing, waiting.
Five minutes later, the sound of snapping twigs broke the silence. A figure emerged from the dense shadows of the trees and approached the clone from behind.
"Lady Stell."
The clone turned.
Standing there was a demon. She had long pink hair and a pair of jagged horns protruding from her head. It was Aura the Guillotine.
However, the arrogance that had once defined her was completely gone. Her eyes were empty, hollow pools, stripped of all will and malice. She was nothing more than a puppet, bound absolutely by the magic she had once used to enslave others.
For a being that had lived for five centuries, killing her would have been a waste of resources. Controlling her, using her to generate "profit," was the mathematically superior choice.
"Query: Have you located other demon individuals?" the clone asked.
"Yes. I have found one," the puppet replied smoothly. "A Great Demon of similar rank to my former self."
"..."
The clone processed this.
The timeline had been drastically altered by the Main Unit's actions a thousand years ago. The "Blitz on the Demon King's Castle" had wiped out the apex predators of the demon race, including the King himself. In the centuries that followed, Takson had relentlessly hunted down the scattered remnants. Humanity, emboldened by the demons' weakened state, had finished the job.
Today, demons were practically an endangered species.
Given these historical facts, the clone had already calculated that Aura's search would yield minimal results. Finding even one Great Demon was a statistical success.
For the clone, as long as Aura provided even a fraction of a percent of "profit," she was a useful tool.
The clone received the coordinates of the target from Aura's mind.
"Command: Continue the search."
With its new target locked, the clone turned its back on the puppet, opened a golden portal, and stepped through, vanishing into the night to hunt.
….
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